I Still Miss You, Sometimes
by llashan
Summary: Francis' first and perhaps only love was Jeanne d'Arc. But it turns out she loved someone else all along. England/Jeanne and France


I watched a nicovideo on YouTube the other day and it was France/Jeanne, and how France got the cross he always wears. But all I could think about was England's side, and afterwards the idea of England/Jeanne stuck in my head. Be forewarned though, this has absolutely no grounding in history. I'm sorry if it has a lot of errors or if it doesn't make sense, I'm a bit tired. But please do leave a review to tell me so and I will change things accordingly thanks! :)

Dontmezwitme: Thanks for the history lesson! I've edited the bottom bit and I hope it's better now *nervous*

.a.

_**30**__**th**__** May, 1456**_

It was there again.

He'd almost missed it this time, because of the stupid Tudor rose bouquet covering half her headstone. He almost threw it away as well, when he hurled the brightly colored eyesore from her grave.

A national apology, he snorted, because twenty-five years later they find her innocent.

It was pathetic.

It was useless.

_It would never bring her back._

He turned away to examine the lone red rose that had been laid every year since she had been gone. It looked and smelled similar to the one he always put on her grave, but there was no indication as to who had placed it there before him. He burned the bouquet, watching as it went up in flames. A fitting response, he thought, to the original crime. As red, white and yellow turned to black, he spotted something glittering amidst the ashes. Picking it up and inspecting it, he realized it was the cross his beloved always wore.

"_It reminds me this is His battle, and His victory. I am blessed He chose to do His work through me."_

This was the first time he'd ever touched it. He had only ever seen it while she was wearing it, and afterwards it had disappeared from her person. He'd never asked where it went. She had to ask for another at the stake, so he knew she didn't have it then. So where did it go all this time, and why was it here now?

"That's mine." A heavily English-accented voice rang out behind him, making him turn around to see who it was.

"Arthur Kirkland." He said with disgust, the name leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

"That's mine." Arthur repeated, unfazed by the Frenchman's animosity.

Francis snorted. "The hell it is. This is Jeanne's. I knew you English pigs were greedy for gold, but I didn't think you would stoop so low as to kill someone just to steal that bit of metal," he sneered. "Putting flowers at their grave won't buy their forgiveness."

_Nor bring them back._

Arthur ignored the burnt bouquet the other blonde nodded towards.

"I don't care about the national apology. She's gone, and nothing you or I do is going to change that." Francis raised an immaculate eyebrow at his lack of emotion. As if _he_ was the one in pain, the Frenchman scoffed. He said as much, causing Arthur to bristle at his words.

"Did you never stop to think that maybe _I_ loved her too?" Arthur roared back. "How much it hurt me to be so powerless to stop the courts from prosecuting her, to stop her being the victim in this ridiculous rivalry? She's the mother of my child, for God's sake!" Here the Englishman's voice broke and he sat down heavily, burying his face in his hands.

"Daddy!"

A small figure came running up the slope towards the pair, tugging along a stuffed bear. He saw the long silky pale blonde locks and thin eyebrows, none of them like Arthur's features. But it was the young, fresh face that sent him into shock.

_Because he was the splitting image of Jeanne._

Francis froze, stunned by the rapid unraveling of events. His world seemed to pull out from under him, bringing him to his knees.

"…Wha-? How-?" he floundered, before the truth slowly sank in.

"It was you," he said flatly, finally solving the mystery of the rose.

"Yes." The Englishman's voice was dead, his eyes devoid of emotion. It was as if his soul had died along with her, and in a way Francis supposed it had. They sat in silence while the boy made his way to them, Francis waiting for an explanation.

"We…." Arthur's voice wavered as he tried to compose himself. "We met on the battlefield of course. You weren't there, you were never there. We…talked, when we bumped into each other on patrols. Neither side believed in fighting each other; so we just pretended we didn't see the other. But there was something about her… you know? And….well, one thing led to another. The bastards in court wanted to be rid of her sooner, so they came up with all sorts of ridiculous charges; but when the female aristocracy found out the truth about us, they helped. I suppose after all those loveless political marriages, they felt for our situation. Wanted to be like her, to marry who they wished and be free of the obligations of their stations. We tried to elope, but as you can see, we were caught. I lost my position and my wealth, but she-"

His son bounded up then, encircling him in a hug by way of greeting, looking curiously at the stranger. Arthur shifted slightly, pulling the child into his arms and resting his chin atop the boy's head. So he wouldn't see the tears that threatened to spill from his father's eyes, the Frenchman realized.

"She named him Matthew, before they took him away from her and gave him to me."

"_Gift from God_," Francis translated. "But…wasn't she declared a virgin? How..?"

Arthur smiled slightly.

Ahh, so he had help for that too. And no one dared question the word of the aristocracy, not even the clergy. Running out of excuses under which to charge her, it was no wonder they had to resort to something as trivial as wearing men's clothes. He snorted. As if anyone could go to war in those flouncy dresses women of the age deigned to wear.

So this was Arthur's revenge, by turning the masses against the rule and power of the Church. The institution which stood for all that had been taken from him, just because he loved someone who just happened to be born on the wrong end of the English Channel. By painting her as a pious, patriotic female - traits admired and deemed important to the English - he ensured that the commoners would love her and be outraged at the gross injustice suffered to her by the establishment that up to now was viewed as a foundation of society.

Everything made perfect sense now. The red rose. The unofficial flower of England. The double entendre. I love you.

_I love you._

He knew then that he was wrong; he'd never had her heart. It had always belonged to the Englishman. His rival, in more ways than one. He sat down next to Arthur, letting the silence wash over them. While they were in the church graveyard, they did not represent two warring nations. They were merely two men, joined in the loss of their love.

"I suppose I have to give this back to you then."

Arthur looked at him. "Keep it. Talking to you made me realize I had everything, while you had naught. Use it to remember her by; I have Matthew…her living legacy," he said, hugging his son even closer.

_**30**__**th**__** May, 1457**_

Arthur hefted Matthew in his arms, using his foot to push the gate open. Walking through the graves by instinct, he stopped in front of a plain headstone.

"Here, Matthew. Say hello to your mother."

Setting his son down, and reaching out to place his red rose, he smiled sadly at the lily already lying at her grave.

Arthur brushed his fingers against her headstone, wishing it was her soft hair, whispering "I still miss you, sometimes."

.a.

Thank you for reading! I just wanted to add that the lily, or the fleur-di-lis, is France's national flower. Again, because I didn't do any research I'm not sure if they had national flowers in that period.


End file.
